


Take the Lead

by Billywick, selwyn



Series: Transformers various Roleplay Fiction [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: And Now For Something Completely Different, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-12 15:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7939675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Billywick/pseuds/Billywick, https://archiveofourown.org/users/selwyn/pseuds/selwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Momus and Sherma, stupidly in love and raring to fight the good fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> here is a snippet of two characters that somehow bowled me over with feelings? There's slim to no canon to go on.

Sherma had turned his attentions to the party. It was a lively affair, and not in the slightest disturbed by the would-be attacker and the ruckus he'd caused. 

Curious, how he’d gotten all the way up here and known exactly which room the medic in question and his enforcer had been in. 

There were no coincidences like that. 

He sipped on a drink, playing the gracious host in Momus’ temporary absence. They had something to discuss, but it would never do to end a party early. Especially not one hosted by this particular senator. 

 

Momus didn’t hurry back. It wouldn’t do for him to lose his cool, even like this. His arrival was effortless, smooth, and welcomed by all. His image demanded it. When asked about the damages and the attacker, he simply shrugged, sardonic grin in place, and let fly a quip that lowered the tension by a mile.

“Security here is  _ appalling _ ,” he said once he found his way to Sherma’s side, “The rabble keep finding their way in. It almost makes one think there’s a  _ higher power _ at work.”

His optics glinted with amusement as he said that. He surveyed the party. Most of the mecha here were manual class, like he’d been once. “Someone’s going to owe me money for the damages here,” Momus cackled softly, “Glitches better cough up quick-like, they kicked down the door for the sitting room. Slaggers.”

Clever blue optics slid over to Sherma, sly. “These Decepticons really are a menace,” he said, mouth curling up into a smirk, “Such a  _ danger  _ to the public and innocent senators.  _ However  _ will we stop them?”

 

“With every means _ necessary _ , of course,” Sherma allowed himself to return said smirk, shaking his helm a moment later. Really, the Senate were getting wiley beyond all measure. That insignia had been so poorly painted on the mech that Sherma had practically seen it drip down his wings. 

“Of course, it’s a little concerning, isn’t it? How little regard there is for the courtesy of not ruining the furniture on every assassination attempt.”

 

“I prefer to ruin my furniture  _ myself _ .” Momus grinned before nudging Sherma with his hip. “Preferably with you, sweetspark.” He was still smirking as he leaned back, idly tapping his pede to the music.

“What do you think of our guests? Besides their endearing cluelessness, of course. Sorta like those organic things –  mushrooms, that’s their name! You put them in the dark and feed them slag until they’re big enough to poke their heads out of the ground.”

 

“Sometimes it’s very obvious you’re from Helex, you know?” Sherma allowed himself to relax. Momus’ parties weren’t nearly as pretentious as they should be, given their host’s position and their location in the most luxurious tower to call home in all of Cybertron. There was still a certain etiquette to uphold, but none of the dagger glares and silent arguments with other senators at various other occasions.

“I think our guests need the night to settle. They certainly were ready to be cozy on the way here,” he chuckled, offering a drink to Momus, knowing exactly how many rust flakes the mech preferred to be gulping down.

“Could barely keep their servos off of each other. It’s very convenient, for an enforcer to be in love with the medic he’s supposed to protect. I think there’s a romance novel waiting to be written here. It would be spark-wrenching and so very risque, a story of caste taboos.”

 

“Don’t play cool, you’re in love with my rakish Helexian humor.”

Momus glanced in the direction of the hab he’d dumped their guests in. Thank Primus for soundproofing.“You can be the author. You’re an  _ expert _ at the taboo.” 

Rather than take the drink, Momus merely leaned down and drank while Sherma held it. “You’re a romantic spark, darling, but I think for them, we should be making the jump from  _ romantic  _ to  _ erotica _ .”

A low laugh. Momus played with the straw in the drink Sherma still held, casual. His air of irreverence still didn’t fade even as his field dimmed into a more sober cast. “We need to increase security ‘round here,” he said softly, “Red Alert’s good with keeping out the strays, but he can’t stop the Senate. It takes  _ one  _ slip. Then we’ll have a right mess on our hands, won’t we? Not good for parties.”

 

“I think parties will be the least of our worries if there is to be a mess, my dear,” Sherma didn’t mind Momus’ mannerisms, less than perfect for a senator and yet completely accepted by those he surrounded himself with. Momus’ wit charmed nearly everyone he came into contact with, even some of the more skeptical mecha who had sneered at his origins. Scratch that, that was over half the senate. Not that it disturbed the handsome mech at his side. Gold and white plating shimmered with more luxury than Momus enjoyed. Sherma liked their effect, the way the lighting played over the orange derma and slid off into the cool white and warm gold. 

“We better be careful about beefing up security. Too much and someone might suspect we have something to  _ hide. _ ”

 

“Something to hide? Me?” Momus pitched his voice, so it was louder than the music. “Oi! Does everyone here think I have something to hide?!”

Various answers came back from his guests.

“Your illicit love affairs!”

“The army of dead Cybertronians in your basement!”

“Your horrible taste!”

“Your lovechild with Nominus Prime!”

Raucous laughter rippled through them as Momus turned to Sherma. “I guess I  _ do  _ have something to hide,” he said, amused. “It’ll take a parade of shareware through here, and no one will question me since they’ll be too busy jonesing for an invite to my spectacular orgies. Give them something to  _ see _ , Sherma, and no one questions what you’re  _ really  _ doing.”

 

Sherma waited to speak until the next piece of music began to play, filling the hall with cheers and dancing. Momus’ parties were always so much livelier than a stuffy high society event. Sherma had fallen to their charm and their host a long time ago. He sighed wistfully.

“I remember how it was, so long ago, that sensation of falling in love. Of course, now that you’re so old and your paint is peeling, that feeling has waned into nothing more than long-suffering resignation.” He smirked broadly at Momus.

 

Momus cackled again, mockingly slapped Sherma’s arm. “Pfff, what you call  _ resignation  _ is what half of Cybertron calls  _ mad lust _ for me. Me, Momus the great. Momus the successful.” He leaned over, into Sherma’s space. “Momus the  _ devastatingly _ attractive spike-slayer.”

 

“You’re killing it, that _ mad lust _ ,” Sherma retorted, dryly. Momus was a sensation all by himself, and his fellow senator had always admired him for it. Although he’d certainly not describe himself as ‘slain’ by any definition of the word. Especially considering how very needy Momus could be in berth. Not that Sherma minded. He didn’t have many outlets, his vocation taxing in every way possible. It was always good to let off steam together. 

Momus, for his loud mouth, could be a downright spoiled little  _ pet _ in berth.

“Last I recall, you were panting madly for my spike, sweetspark. Do you need a reminder of it already?”

 

“Ma-aybe?” He stretched the word, taking two syllables and giving it four. Momus’ smirk went from sly to coy as he tilted his helm. “Are you going to show me something naughty if I say yes,  _ sir _ ?”

It was only half-joking. Momus tilted Sherma’s drink closer to himself, optics hooded and dim as he watched the mech. Political intrigue was their bread and butter, and they liked playing the big game with all the other mecha, but sometimes one needed some  _ private  _ entertainment. They fit each other’s criterias rather snugly.

In Momus’ own words:  _ “Sweetspark, we’re planning a revolution against our planet-wide government that has audials in our own brain modules. Let’s throw a party and get naughty before we die horribly.” _

Intrigue was their livelihood, but they’d found something enriching within each other. Not only someone to trust, but someone to spin on the hopes and new ideas that could not be shared with others. Not in their positions, not in this functionist age. Momus was living proof that the old regime was, for lack of better terms,  _ absolute slag _ . Something obsolete and broken and reeking of corruption that needed to be overturned, burned down and replaced.

They’d already committed their lives to that purpose. What little pleasures they could glean from the small spaces in between, they indulged in fully.

“I don’t know about naughty, sweetspark, but I’ll certainly show you _ something _ .” Sherma closed the distance between them a little further, now only separated by less than a servo’s length and the drink Momus was still sucking on. Sherma would see that straw replaced with something more substantial if they were alone.

Even though Momus’ parties were relaxed affairs, there was a limit to how much Sherma exposed their relationship, although Momus constantly undermined that process.

 

Momus sucked in air through his dentae, optics bright. “I do love it when you start playing along,” he said, hooking his leg around Sherma’s ankle to pull him a little closer. “Now, come on, darling, everyone here and their pet cybercat knows we’re banging out the formation of Cybertron in the berth. Why  _ hide  _ it?”

He took plucked the drink away and set it on the table. Putting his servo on Sherma’s thick waist, Momus leered. “Remember when you were still prim and proper, and I ended up scandalizing you every time we met? It took me years and  _ years  _ to bag you.”

A little teasing here. “I personally blame you for all the hookers and blow my ascendence into the Senate  _ didn’t  _ get me.”

 

“I’m inclined not to be sorry in the slightest,” Sherma did enjoy Momus’ blatant desire for him. It was one of his many charming aspects. It even made up for the complete lack of shame the mech was plagued with.

And yes, their relationship was a poorly kept secret. Although most mecha that surrounded the two senators did not make comments on it. Mostly because no one wanted to enter a battle of barbs and wit with Momus, but Sherma could hold his own. He just didn’t have his lover’s brash, Helexian manner about it.

“All the hookers and blow on Cybertron wouldn’t make up for me, Momus. You know that.”

 

“I  _ am  _ all the hookers and blow on Cybertron, compressed into one handy dandy individual.” He took Sherma’s quiet as permission to press closer, his leg still curled around Sherma’s possessively. The party was dark enough that no one would see, anyway.

“Now, how do I have to bribe you to get you to dance with me? Corruption in the Senate has never been so good.”

He took his servo, tugging it. “One dance, to celebrate the fact that the assassin is dead and I’m still rich and smoking.”

 

“Bribing a senator? Why, Momus, that’ll cost you more than a dance,” Sherma let himself be pulled into their game, free servo slipping over the golden frame in front of him until he had a good hold on Momus’ waist. Their business was risky, and not all that rewarding. But at least it was working, even with the hitch known as Roller. Shockwave’s input from Pax had been invaluable in tracking down the targeted medic. Another close call. There were plenty of those, lately.

“I’d say it may cost you a night of interfacing, since you’re apparently comprised of hookers.” He whispered into Momus’ audial as he swung him into a lively rhythm. Even if their other guests saw, the senators joining in the celebrations was not all that rare. Not in this hab suite.

 

Momus’ laugh was startled and giddy as he held on to Sherma. Once he got his pedes, he was swinging his hips with the best of them. Their plating melded into the crush of bodies, light flashing over their paint until they were little more than flashes of metal in motion. “ _ Only  _ a night?” he teased, “I didn’t know senators came so cheap.”

They danced, carefree and happy in the guarded bubble of their habsuite, surrounded by the poor and rich of Cybertron alike, shedding social graces so they could only be Momus and Sherma, stupidly in love and raring to fight the good fight. It was moments like these that made the daytime worth it, when they put on their public faces and administered injustice over their planet. Stolen moments, golden and glorious.

They twirled through the crowd, holding onto each other. When the song finally changed into something slightly slower, Momus slid straight into Sherma with a snort. “Dare I hope the good senator will stay the night?”

 

“Only if the bad senator intends to be hospitable.” Sherma held Momus close, no intention of relinquishing his Helexian disaster any time soon. This was how he loved this mech the most; carefree, at ease, satisfied with what they’d made of their lives and how easily they’d become entwined. If only they could keep moments like these stitched together and live in a better world altogether...but someone always had to take the lead. Change didn’t happen on its own. So they had stopped following, and forged their own path. A better one. An equal one. 

Sherma only had to incline his helm a little to catch Momus in a kiss. Nothing too preposterous, but also no longer chaste. Momus had gotten rid of that good mannerism in Sherma very easily, and quickly. 

“I don’t know if you have the room in your humble abode,” he whispered, grinning against orange derma.

 

“Oh, yes, sir, I can be  _ real  _ hospitable,” Momus melted into the kiss, even as laughter bubbled up behind his lips. It was finally broken when he broke into chortles, so happy that the emotion refused to be contained inside his spark. “I’ve got plenty of room and board, if you know where to look.” He winked, before looking Sherma up and down so solidly he might as well have touched him right then and there.

Momus’ flirting was like the rest of him –  larger than life, overpowering. He simply didn’t relent.

Dancing no longer seemed enough. A dark corner, on the other hand… Momus pressed closer, before sneaking his hand between them for a cheeky squeeze of Sherma’s panel, trusting the darkness to conceal his movement. “Do you ever think,” he said, expression completely straight, “that we might’ve never met if things had been different? I’d be a foreman in Helex, and you’d be here, senatoring away.”

 

“Clearly wasting away wistfully, wondering what was missing in my perfect and proper life,” Sherma chuckled, panel pinging interest at the not unwelcome touch. Momus had absolutely no sense of shame and it was delightful. There were worse things in the universe than to be unabashedly attracted to one another. He tugged on the mildly smaller frame of his fellow senator, managing to bring them both away from the dancefloor and towards a quiet corner near a hallway leading to a balcony, high above the city streets.

“And you’d be such an industrious worker, missing every opportunity you didn’t have to put such prim and proper senators in their place.”

Sherma smiled at Momus. The mech had needed a long time to win him over, but now, nothing but fire and brimstone could tear them apart.

 

“Our own little worlds, so far we might as well be living in different galaxies.” Momus kissed Sherma as the party went on without  them, easily filling in the space they left behind with more bodies. “I’m glad I met you. People like you should always frag people like me.”

Momus pressed Sherma up against the wall, his vulpine smirk lit up by the light of Luna-1 filtering through the windows. “Those two were lucky to have found each other. Every mech that goes out of their caste is lucky. That shouldn’t be happening.”

He got on the tips of his pedes, just enough that he could meet Sherma’s optics. “We’re playing a dangerous game, sweetspark. We might not wake up today, or tomorrow, or all the days after that.”

 

“I do believe we’ve had this discussion, my dear,” Sherma held him tightly, no longer needing any inches of space between them. Momus and he had long ago decided their new path, and they were both fully aware of potential consequences. It made them careful, and it made them appreciate every moment they had together.

“And what we’ll do if we do wake up. Carry on. Make the changes no one else will. Forge a new world. And in it...” Sherma smiled to himself. This particular promise would always light up his optics, make his frame tingle where it touched Momus. They’d promised themselves to each other, but only once no mech was restrained by caste and could enjoy the same privileges.

“I’ll finally make an honest mech out of you. Primus knows no one else could.”

 

“Then we need to hurry and get the ball rolling. There’s only so long I can wait.” Momus gave Sherma a watery grin, before wrapping around him in a tight hug. “We’re two fools,” he said, “Primus must’ve made a mistake letting us be together. No time for dying.”

He ran his palm over the smooth curve of Sherma’s helm, before cupping his face. “This better be hush-hush,” he teased, “Can’t let the public know I’m getting weak-kneed over you. It’d ruin me.”

Their fields mingled, mixing together with the ease of long time spent in each other’s company. Restraint was no longer necessary, not between them. “Once we change things,” Momus said, “I’m gonna propose to you, right out in Trion Square. Pop my chestplates and everything, scandalize you one last time before the wagon’s hitched and you get too used to me.”

 

“I don’t think anyone could ever be too used to you, sweetspark,” Sherma laughed at the thought. Of course Momus would make a scandal out of it, would make sure all of Cybertron knew that Sherma was indisputably weak for him too. 

The public nature of their ‘affair’ had ruffled a lot of feathers, and Sherma spent a considerable amount of his life smoothing them back down. They were old news by now. 

“Trion square?” he mused the scene. He knew he’d be flustered, even though his vocation demanded Sherma have impeccable control over his reactions and emotions.

“You’ll lose all chances to have any more hookers. Or blow.”

 

“Are you saying our married life can’t consist of hookers and blow with each other? Sherma, think  _ outside the box _ ! Haven’t you ever thought what ‘facing on boosters feels like?”

This was an old game between them. They mused on what the future might be like, what they’d do. It was all built on the single, impossible hope that they’d live long enough to see it happen. “Maybe we go out of Cybertron. Tour the galaxy, eat exotic things, ‘face on sacred alien sites. Throw old oil at Proteus and laugh when he cries over his ugly paint.”

Momus sighed wistfully. “Maybe… maybe try for a sparkling. Chances aren’t high but  _ I’m  _ involved, so our success rate automatically gets boosted.”

 

Sherma’s optical ridge rose and fell at that. A sparkling with Momus’ temper? The little whirlwind would be an unstoppable force.

“Your virility is always highly recommended. Sweetspark,” Sherma kissed Momus again, noting that wistful edge to his words. They both knew the chances of surviving a large-scale revolution were slim to none. The dreams for a future were hanging by a thin, thin strip of a nail in a foundation made to crumble.

“Perhaps we’ll content ourselves with the present, until we usher in the future. I’m feeling some of that mad, famous lust return.”

 

“When has it ever left?” Momus splayed his hands over Sherma’s chest, smiling up at him. He slowly slid downwards, trailing light kisses down his chest as he went. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you were looking at, darling. And here we are, all nice and peaceful…”

Momus nuzzled his panel, before kissing it. “Consider this a preview, senator. Free, of course.”

 

“Free samples. You are a gracious host of course,” Sherma let his servos follow Momus’ path downward. It was perfectly lewd, and perfectly suited to his lover to be so utterly open about it all. They weren’t in a private room. They were just in a darkened corner. Oh Momus did like to show off.

“What do you think you saw me looking at, Momus? Not that I want to keep your mouth from where it so obviously wants to go.”

They could simply move to comms, if they really wanted to keep their playful conversation going. Sherma dimmed his optics, watching Momus cuddle his panel as if it was his best friend.

 

“My mouth has obvious plans for great things. Unfortunately, something blocks its way.” Momus kissed his panel. “Could you be a dear and remove it for poor old me?”

Momus revelled in this. In the freedom to do things like this, with someone so far above his actual station there was vertigo. His constant social climbing had put him at the pinnacle of where their society ended, and his reward was the opportunity to meet the one mech that put Momus the mech in the place of Momus the ambitious.

 

“Work, work, work.” Sherma laughed, panel moving aside smoothly for his persistent host. Momus had all the mannerisms of a senator, but only when he wanted to behave. And that was reserved for the stiff round of council that ended in arguments and no improvements made. Such were their grim realities. All the more reason to enjoy the peace of moments like this, when nothing stood between them but their own lack of patience.

“Show me these great things then, sweetspark.”

Momus was always attentive. For all his rugged humour and rogueish wit, he knew how to treat Sherma. He knew how to woo Sherma. 

Personally, he had not been among those that greeted Momus’ acceptance into the senate with enthusiasm or contempt. He didn’t mind that the green-sparked mech came from Helex, or that he used to be nothing but a foreman. Sherma didn’t think much of the castes. He’d met plenty of mecha in his own city of Altihex who proved to have intelligence or interests or preferences and talents outside of their station and cast. Sherma had come to the senate a million years ago, full of hope and enthusiasm to make changes to the caste system. But all of his ambitions faltered, layed down and slowly trampled by the reality of the Senate overall, as a whole. Sherma learned their ways, learned not to show who he was, what he thought, without contemplating the impact of it first. He represented his people, and he would only take action when he saw a course that would truly make a difference.

He grew complacent, resigned, defeated by Cybertron’s ways that seemed untouchable, immeasurable, like mountains, impossible to change.

And then.

There had been Momus.

From his history and meteoric rise through social ranks to his brash, clever speeches. The mech was a world of his own, a force to be reckoned with, a rising star in Cybertron’s wilting sky.

Sherma didn’t hitch his wagon to him right away. No. It took time. Conversations, which Momus seemed to seek with him time and time again.

Then, interest. Then, long discussions in private, arguments that lasted until the first light of day, fueled by high grade and passion.

Then...the passion itself leapt from conversation to each other. Sherma admired Momus, and Momus found new sides of Sherma, passion and strength and perseverance. 

Love had been a short hike from that point on, and Sherma had played hard to get for over a century, to ensure Momus meant every flattering word. He did.

And here they were. Making a new Cybertron, together. Aiding the Decepticons where they could, when they could, and trying to decipher and hinder the Senate’s ruthless plans. 

They played a dangerous game, but they had each other. 

Now and always.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Momus was talented at many things. Keeping quiet when he was happy was not one of them. Thankfully, there was something in his mouth to keep him muffled for the most part. He dedicated himself to the task at hand with furious energy, clutching Sherma by the hips while his optics dimmed.

If anyone saw them, they’d be scandalized. Senator Momus, on his knees in front of Senator Sherma? _Scandalous_!

It was a talent of Momus’, to toe the line between fashionably shocking and unacceptably outrageous. He flirted and laughed and wheedled, putting up such an loud front that everyone was too blinded by that to see what else he was doing. Sherma might be the only one he actually ever let see, and he was certainly the first high-society mech that he’d confessed his Decepticon affiliations to.

It was kind of surprising, really, that Momus managed to find someone like Sherma in the corrupt scrapheap like the Senate.

So his antenna angled back, the corners of his mouth curling up, and kept swallowing until his nasal ridge hit Sherma’s plating. _I’d say I won the lottery of life._

 

Similar thoughts of undeserved luck ran through Sherma’s mind, but very much the opposite way. Garnering Momus’ interest had been hard work all on its own. The mech was larger than life and he put a lot of effort in keeping that appearance. Speeches, parties, everything Momus did drew attention.

And it took Sherma some time to learn that Momus ran things this way to keep attention from other things.  Things that dared not see the light of day.

When the mech confessed to him of his Decepticon allegiance, Sherma was relieved. And intrigued. Listening to Momus’ opinion slowly changed his own, lined up with his disbelief regarding the necessity of the caste system.

And then, listening became agreeing. Agreeing became supporting. And now they were up to their optics in an intrigue.

And Sherma was up to the base in Momus’ mouth, servos caressing the odd flicks of plating that stuck out from his helm, containing audials.

“You make very convincing arguments to stay, dear Momus,” he sighed with pleasure.

 

 _::Darling, I’m an argument all on my own.::_ Even over text, Momus managed to sound insufferably smug. His optics flickered before brightening, amused and infatuated at once, as he stared up at his fellow senator. Long years granted him an intimate knowledge of Sherma’s tastes. Interfacing on its own was good, but it was _phenomenal_ when with a partner you knew well.

Momus didn’t waste time messing around with anything else than what Sherma liked. He went for those hot spots, aiming for a quick victory and a messy clean-up.

 _::Face or mouth, darling?::_ he purred.

 

::Mouth. I don’t intend to parade you past your guests covered in transfluid. Even for you, that might be a little much.::

Sherma tapped his fingers against Momus’ helm, a smile on his lips. Only Momus would try and make him overload right here in company. There was bold, and then there was his lover, three steps beyond that.

Victory was assured, and not far off at all. Sherma bowed over Momus slightly, a tiny curse slipping from his mouth as he tried not to flare his field with charge. Just because everyone knew they shared a berth didn’t mean everyone had to know Sherma’s overload face.

 

 _::It’d be a fashion statement. Everyone would do it, if I did it first.::_ Momus greedily took every bit of charge and transfluid Sherma could give him, swallowing it up as if jealous anyone else might if he wasn’t quick enough. He wasn’t strong enough to leave dents in Sherma, but his paint scraped off as he scrabbled at his hips, white and gold streaks flashing across green like badges of triumph.

If someone saw Momus, they might’ve thought he had overloaded as well, he was so pleased with himself. He languidly let the spike pop out of his mouth with a wet sound and chuckled up at Sherma.

“Sweet and proper like the day I met you,” he winked, “should I chase out our poor guests so I can ravish you properly?”

 

“You, ravish me? That would be a change, wouldn’t it?” Sherma reached down to pull Momus back up to his faceplate, kissing him very soundly and tasting himself in his mouth. His panel closed again once his satisfied spike retreated.

“Our guests won’t mind if you’re not there to make raunchy bets and ridiculous challenges. I’d say today’s successful aversion of disaster demands some private celebration.”

Sherma wasn’t the heaviest of frames, but Momus was smaller than him still, and not as wide. Sherma liked to put that to use in the only place where frame mattered over mind, which was, for them, the berth.

 

“You know, our disappearance from the party is no difference than going out into their midst and ‘facing on the table. There might be a lot more cheering. Everyone _knows_.”

Momus kissed his jaw. His field flared, holding Sherma jealously. “Momus’ last conquest,” he purred, “isn’t that what the old tribal leaders used to do? Mark their territory in plain view, so everyone knows that _this_ plot of land –” he smacked Sherma’s aft “– has an owner.”

Laughing to himself, Momus finally pulled away and tugged Sherma with him. They went past the balcony, where a couple already had taken up space anyway, and guided him to one of the many little alcoves hidden throughout Momus’ flat.

“Oh, a washrack,” Momus said, audials pricking up. “I could polish you _real_ good.”

 

“Bring some shine to this old _plot of land?_ ” Sherma chuckled at that. Momus had the patience of a turbofox, and he’d maybe only only half an arm before they would most certainly be interfacing. Sherma didn’t mind one bit, since his lover could race on and tire himself out. That’s when Sherma tended to turn things around and frag Momus slow, and thoroughly and all the snarky commentary in the world couldn’t speed his pace.

“You are certainly capricious tonight, my dear. We’re not out of the hot oil yet, you know.”

 

“We haven’t been out of it since we first jumped in,” Momus retorted as he pushed Sherma around and plopped him into a seat. Sherma usually took his manhandling good-naturedly, so Momus simply took advantage of his patient nature. He grabbed the polishing kit from an indent in the wall and spread out. Grabbed the buffer, and set to work at Sherma’s back.

“An assassin could come in _right now_ , and we’d only last the amount of time he’s spent being dazzled by my fantastic good looks. I wasn’t smart enough to snag an enforcer as my lover, clearly.” The humor in his tone took the bite out of his words. The scent of high-quality wax filled the room as Momus meticulously cleaned plating with an efficiency learned as a foreman.

“It’s unfortunate I can’t bear to share you with anyone else. Otherwise we could have a third honey to guard us. Or use as a sacrifice to buy time.” Sherma’s plating was a lot cleaner than a miner’s, obviously, but Momus picked out the fine grit between his seams anyway. Taking care of him like this was… satisfying. “Taking things slow and easy is no good when you’ve got a limited amount of time left. You should’ve fallen for my charm earlier, we could’ve spent so much more time with your spike in my throat.”

 

Sherma was fully aware of how finite their time could be. He’d known that ever since declaring himself a Decepticon sympathizer and throwing his lot in with Momus.

“You enjoyed the chase. I’d be sharing you with five ‘honeys’ if I didn’t make it so interesting for you to pursue me. At least, that part of you is horribly predictable, my dear.”

Conquest, challenge, those type of things. Momus had wheedled his way into Sherma’s presence, then impressed him, only to be politely rejected time and time again. Even though Sherma absolutely admired him, his strength of will and his intelligence, he made himself unavailable to test out Momus’ interest and how strong it really was.

He was still surprised the mech had actually persisted and insisted on wooing him. Sherma rustled his plating. He did love a good polish.

 

“The chase is good, darling. Chasing fame, chasing power, chasing everything that satisfies me… it’s good. But only that. Once you get it… well, I’m a Helexian cyberhound at spark. Can’t be satisfied without something impossible to run after.”

Momus kissed Sherma’s shoulder. “Lucky for me, I found something _real_ good to chase. You made me run a few merry centuries, darling. I thought I was never going to see the end of it. Imagine _my_ surprise when I wasn’t satisfied with one tumble, or even two. So I guess you won. Got me good and outwitted my fool spark into your hands.”

Another kiss, on the other shoulder. “Can’t say I’m too upset. You did kinda confuse me though. I knew you liked me. I knew you thought I was slicker than a fresh forge sports spark at the races. So I didn’t get why you kept saying no, over and over.”

 

“I didn’t know another way to keep you interested other than not giving you what you wanted,” Sherma leaned into his touches, the kisses on his plating tingling pleasantly. Even after all of these years together, Momus still made his spark pulse happiness. It was an accomplishment, alright.

“Or maybe any other way might have taken us away from our discourse. I enjoyed those nights with you, just spent talking. And then later on, I enjoyed them even more.” Sherma had played his own game with Momus and succeeded, trapping the mech’s interest and then his spark, though the latter was not nearly as intentional as the former.

“I didn’t want to be just another feat to fall into your servos.”

 

“I did have quite a few of those,” Momus said, smug. “Nabbed quite a few of our own buddy senators before I clicked with you. It was satisfying to make them drop their high and mighty act for some hotshot scraplicker someone pitched out of a mine. Revenge.”

He finished buffing his back, and moved onto polishing with a pad. It going to a real adventure, stripping that off him once they got going. “You’re telling me you never even considered it? Not even once?”

 

“What, interfacing with you, or the other senators?” Sherma let his lover do as he pleased, flaring plating here and there for better access. He would return the favour, if only Momus cared enough about appearance to get polished other than for senatorial duties or parties like this one. Sometimes, Sherma suspected the Helexian wanted to be a little dirty and rough.

“I thought about it. Once my drive and ambition died out after I was around long enough. I had to entertain myself with something before you came along. And after? Well. I had ideas. A lot of ideas. And those seemed more prudent to share with you than my array.”

 

“Sharing is caring. Generosity with one’s body and one’s mind is the more preeminent sign of holiness, I’ll have you know.” Momus set down his polishing pad and ran his hands over the expanse of Sherma’s shoulders. “I am perfectly capable of talking shop while riding you back to Vector Sigma.”

His arms wound around his neck, pulling him back to rest on Momus’ chest. “I think you could’ve helped change things, with or without me,” he said, his normally cheeky tone dropping off, “you didn’t need me, though obviously I was a massive boon. You were already on your way, I just… pushed you along a little.”

 

“There’s no need to flatter me, my dear, I’m already interested in your berth,” Sherma leaned his helm back too, finding comfort in Momus’ field and presence. Not that he’d been uncomfortable, but there wasn’t a moment in his recent years where tension had spared him a day.

“I needed you. I have no illusions about that. And you needed me, for all your gusto would have just ended in a ditch if not for a little direction. You needed to learn how to grease the senate wheels.”

 

“I certainly greased quite a few things,” Momus leered down at Sherma. “But really, I mean it. Take some honesty, will you?”

 

“Honesty is such a rare treat. I’m not sure I know what to do with it.” Sherma glanced back at Momus, deciding that he’d been polished enough. He always made sure to look presentable anyway, so dirty was not something that could be applied to describing him, but after a round or two with Momus, paint streaks were inevitable.

“I’d rather take some more greasing, senator.”

 

“You’re going to have to be more explicit than that,” Momus purred, leaning in close. He toyed with the golden kibble atop Sherma’s shoulders, circling slim fingers around them. “I fear I don’t quite understand your meaning, love.”

The amusement in his voice belied his words, but he didn’t budge. “You’ll have to be clearer, senator.” He smacked a wet kiss on the fin on Sherma’s back. “Your humble servant isn’t quite _up to speed_.”

 

“My humble servant has already forgotten his promise of a bribe, hm? That is unfortunate,” Sherma turned, as much as he could, which was difficult given as to how Momus lingered behind him.

“And here I thought it was painfully obvious that I want to take that frame in any manner I see fit,” It wasn’t difficult to pull Momus up, since his fellow senator seemed very much intrigued by his wishes and didn’t struggle as he landed gently against the wall, trapped between Sherma and it.

“Should I make it even clearer, dear?”

 

“Indeed you should,” Momus agreed sagely, his legs already rising up to settle around Sherma’s  hips, “Your humble servant still does not understand what sir desires.”

Teasing, coy. Their game here wasn’t as serious as it sometimes got, but that wasn’t bad. Momus arched up, offering his chassis to whatever Sherma had in mind. “You’ve been so… restrained back at the party, I thought you really didn’t want me.” A lie, but Momus relished it when Sherma confirmed his attraction. It was a point of pride and desire for him, to know uptight, quiet Sherma lost his cool thanks to Momus.

 

“I always want you,” Sherma did shed some of that cool, if only to pepper Momus’ frame with all the kisses he deserved. Which were plenty, even if the mech pressed to the wall was a conniving, clever glitch whom the Senate would gladly see fall. Sherma didn’t. Sherma wanted to carry Momus on his back until the world made sense. Then, he just wanted him in his arms.

“You know that,” Sherma’s servo comfortably slid to Momus’ panel, massaging over the seams, taking his time to feel the heat and desire waft off of the other mech.

For all his talk and trying to rile Sherma up, Momus was pretty obvious about his own reactions as well. But then again, he never did try to hide them.

 

“Do I?” He rocked his hips into Sherma’s touch, not quite ready to reward him with his bared array. “This humble servant would like more wooing before anything naughty happens, senator. Squeeze a little romance into the air, will you?”

A quicksilver grin flashed across Momus’ face. Heat was pooling in his tanks as he arched his back further, gold and white paint glittering in the light, and Momus released an impressively elongated moan of _“Sherma,”_ that stretched on a full breath.

“Tell me how much you want me.”

 

When Momus gave him the wattage of his full attention, Sherma liked to shed all layers of culture and poise. This was nothing but primal instinct and pleasure, promised in the charge building up on both of their frames and the heat rising through his core. His engine, usually a quiet, idling thing, gave a sudden hungry roar, fans spinning on their highest setting.

His helm almost rested against the wall, his dentae busy as his lips explored Momus’ audials and their odd, elongated protrusions.

“I want you,” he whispered in between teasing the thin metal with kisses and nips, “more than the Senate wants us dead,” he grinned, finding something horribly entertaining in the morbidity of the truth.

His servos were still busy, one massaging Momus’ seams, the other tracing along his leg until he could support his aft.

 

“That _is_ impressive,” Momus nodded, delightfully preening under Sherma’s attention. His audials pricked higher, pushing into his mouth as shivers traversed over his frame. “I can’t possibly resist that.”

A chuckle, even as his panel slid open. Despite Momus’ cheeky comments, his array was already blazing and eager for attention. His node glowed golden, reflecting light across the expanse of his equally golden valve. A drop of lubricant eased out between the lips, falling onto Sherma’s hand. His spike was just as hungry, already covered with strips of dripping transfluid over the alternating gold and white stripes.

Momus, confident in his frame and shameless, angled his hips up in offering. He smirked. “Come on, senator,” he breathed, “ _impress_ me.”

 

One day, Momus was going to make Sherma lose his head with that smirk. Such confidence, it existed to challenge him. And everyone else Momus met, but he was definitely the most important person in that category.

Would just a normal interfacing sate his beloved? Sherma doubted it. Tonight felt much too fated to be a coincidence, and whatever was coming for them was big and unstoppable and they truly might not have the time to take things at any slower pace.

“Hm, sweetspark, you’re already wet for me,” Sherma palmed over that golden valve gently, blunt fingers tapping lightly on the anterior node that was so eager to greet him.

“I do hope this is a feat no one has seen you perform so quickly,” he nibbled on those audials again as he didn’t hesitate to sink two exploratory fingers into Momus. His spike would get attention soon too, but that golden prize of a valve just called to him.

“Have I ever told you how much I love the colours you chose for yourself?”

 

“Nearly every time we ‘face, yes,” Momus grinned, “who knows, maybe I picked these colors out just to drive _you_ wild.” He clenched around the fingers in him, using what leverage his grip on Sherma’s hips afforded him to move up and down on them.

He knew _just_ the right way to move his hips so Sherma hit a cluster of nodes inside him. Momus bit his lips as he ground down harder, taking in more even as his optics flickered with arousal. Lubricant dripped, sticky and heated. “Too bad we don’t have our toys with us. You look _fetching_ in handcuffs.”

They were across the flat, unfortunately. Otherwise Momus might’ve demanded the collars be brought in. Certainly the spreader bars. “Come on, darling, no need to be so gentle. Rough me up a little.”

 

“You’re always so impatient, dear,” Sherma didn’t let Momus’ eager demands disturb his rhythm, stretching, testing, teasing, never lingering on the cluster for long. He knew the frame of his lover intricately well by now.

“You really must learn,” he pulled his fingers back, leaving Momus’ valve with a wet little pop as Sherma adjusted so he could press his spike in their place. Slowly. Very slowly. Mostly to drive Momus to further impatience than anything else. With his hand now free, he could seize the abandoned spike between them, sliding his palm along the shaft until he could grip the base firmly.

“To enjoy yourself and the finer things in life, Momus.”

 

“Sherma…!” Momus bit off the cry before it could become a whine. He tried to force himself down on his spike, but couldn’t find the right angle to get it in as fast as he would like. The slow pace was maddening. His valve was opened up the same, but not as forcefully or _quick_ as Momus craved it. The grip around his spike was just another point to his frustration.

“Don’t… tease…” he grit, bouncing himself on Sherma’s spike as best he could while his helm thunked back on the wall. “Be a dear and… wreck me before you drive me insane with your slowness. I’ll have to beg, love, and that’s no way for a senator to be acting.”

Sometimes, Momus suspected Sherma liked making him beg. It might be the power aspect, or the novelty of it; he wasn’t sure. He did, however, know it was supremely unfair of him to be doing that. “I’ll touch you under the table during a formal meeting,” he threatened, “or do something even naughtier.”

 

“Momus,” Sherma rumbled, engine heavily engaged despite of the fact that this was not strenuous exercise. He slowed his sinking into the golden valve down even more, sternly glaring at his lover. He wouldn’t dare.

Well.

Momus would.

He was just _that_ bold.

“I strongly recommend,” he thrust in hard at that, knowing it would please his impatient lover, “you do not. Who knows what else but debauchery we’d be accused of.”

 

A pleased hiss came at the thrust, and Momus surged back at Sherma in silent encouragement for more. “Debauchery during a meeting sounds good… it’d be actually interesting, for once…” a little grin at that, “I wonder if anyone would be suspicious if I dropped a datapad and didn’t come back up.”

He clenched down periodically, trying to break Sherma’s iron control and get him to go wild, for once. “Sherma, I love you,” Momus groaned, “but we _really_ need to talk about you holding back like this.”

 

“Oh? You want to talk? Pardon my manners, dear senator,” Sherma pinched at Momus’ spike, grinning into his neck before giving his thrusts a little more energy, slowly gaining the speed that his impatient lover demanded. Momus was ridiculous, for all his playing around, his toys, his outrageous commentary, he always ended up overloading first.

As if he couldn’t consume the pleasures of life fast enough.

“I was under the impression you were eager to be _fragged._ ”

 

“I can talk and frag,” he said weakly, squeaking as his legs seized at the pinch. He left long scratches down Sherma’s back –  badges of white down his green paint, “You play with my poor spark, sir, and that’s real unkind of you. I only ask for a few overloads and little lovin’. Not too much, is it?”

Another desperate scratch. It left green paint all down his palm and forearm. “Don’t go cleaning yourself,” Momus said gleefully, “I want everybody to see my paint on you. Wanna feel you tomorrow, too.”

A wholly undignified sound escaped his vocalizer. Momus’ appreciation was just as confident as his work demeanor. “That’s it, Sherma, don’t stop. Primus, yes. Frrrrrr–aaag, _yes._ ”

 

So quick from complaint to praise. Momus was a delight, both in wit and frame and love. Sherma could not do this all night, he would not last without refuelling, but his lover seemed eager to forego any sense of pacing at all.

“I want to play with your spark a little more, love,” he breathed, vents going strongly as he pushed himself into Momus harder, hand now palming the trapped spike of the other with rough, clean strokes.

“I want to merge with you, when you propose to me.”

 

“When _I_ propose? What about you?” He could feel his overload beginning to build, soft and full-bodied, and Momus’ grin widened until his cheeks ached. He was unabashed about showing how much he adored Sherma. Praise and flattery fell from his lips easily as they moved, filling the wash racks with their pleasure.

“We could merge now,” Momus suggested, running a hand over his chest seams, “I love you. You love me. Nothing holds us back.”

 

“It’ll be worth the wait, love,” Sherma muttered, attempting to distract Momus by kissing him thoroughly. Merging was a big step beyond interfacing. And whilst Sherma was very sure that this was his future conjunx, some part of the mannerisms and etiquette he had always been surrounded with stuck. You only merge with your conjunx.

“I promise.”

Firmly but at the same, controlled pace, he forced Momus into his overload, knowing the clamping of his valve and charge hopping over their frames would tumble him after his love.

 

Momus dearly would’ve liked to argue further, but Sherma got stubborn and, well… he could hardly resist _that_ , now could he? He shuddered as he overloaded, holding Sherma close, and a hint of daring sparked through his brain.

Without prompting from Sherma, Momus’ chest plates split apart. They folded back, elegant and smooth, until the sentio metallico of his chamber was exposed. It spiralled open as well, releasing the cerulean light of his spark as it roiled with excess energy begging to be let out in a few more overloads.

“Just once,” Momus tempted him, squeezing down around his spike, “We’ll be conjunxes soon, love, it doesn’t matter if we do it now or later. Just once, I want to _feel_ you.”

 

“Momus...” Sherma whined, almost agonized by the possibility displayed so widely to him. The mech was uncontrollable, unbearable, and wonderful. And the light of his spark begged for Sherma. The bulky senator bowed his helm so he could kiss idly at Momus’ shoulder as he contemplated life, his choices, and the decision to open up his sparkchamber.

It was horribly tempting. Wonderfully enticing.

“Fine,” he sighed. When had he ever _not_ given in? “Just this once.”

His chestplate folded back in a sober little motion, unlocking a spiral sparkchamber that opened up with hesitation, tendrils of blue plasma floating out gingerly.

 

“Yes!” Momus crowed in triumph as he thrust his chest closer, visibly perking up in excitement. The plasma of his spark reached out aggressively, tangling into Sherma’s with a magnetic yearning. It pulled more of him out, demanding _more more more_ as Momus reached in deep into his essence and devoured every scrap he could grab.

With Sherma’s spike still buried in him and now their sparks merging, Momus groaned. He’d dreamed of doing this hundreds of times, imagining the scenarios leading up to it time and time again. Momus grabbed Sherma’s helm, cradling it, and kissed him with a hungry demand hovering around his mouth. He bit and sucked, drawing their sparks inexorably closer until their spark chambers touched.

 _Mine_ , his spark said. _Mine_ , Momus breathed. _Mine_ , his field crawled in deep and settled into Sherma’s circuits, heavy and loving.

 

They’d never been closer. Sherma let Momus guide him, give him the thinnest of anchors to keep ahold of reality, when everything else dissolved into the mech in his arms. Their sparks touched with equal greed. Just because Sherma had been putting this off for a while didn’t mean he didn’t crave knowing and feeling how much Momus loved him.

And to show him that in return he too, was loved. All of Sherma was given to him, their sparks and plasma finding entirely new channels to connect over.

_I love you. I love you beyond anything._

 

Momus overloaded yet again, holding onto Sherma like he was the only thing that mattered anymore. His vents were stuttering as a thousand –   _million_ –  memories flowed between them. His own of being a mere miner, staring up at the distance Iaconian Towers, Sherma’s recollections his early days as a Senator, young and bright… a lifetime of memories, shared and traded.

When the tide finally slowed enough to let Momus speak, he laughed breathlessly. “I knew we should’ve done this.”

 

Sherma stayed silent, optics softly aglow with the fading, cerulean light of their sparks. He couldn’t put into words how much Momus was his, and how deeply he loved him. He didn’t have to. The mech had felt it. Had known what he was to Sherma, how much hope for the future he gave him, how much he brightened his life.

“I thank Primus for you every day, you know that?” he muttered softly, stroking Momus’ faceplate. So vibrant. So full of defiance and will and life.

 

“Primus? _Primus_ ? Primus has got nothing to do with it,” Momus said, catching Sherma’s fingers in a nibble, “What you see before you is the genuine real deal, a one of a kind wonder. Primus _wishes_ he made me.”

It was so arrogant Momus had to laugh. When he stopped, he was still grinning, watching Sherma like he watching the birth of a star –  the few miracles of this galaxy, impossibly overpowering and devastating to witness. “I don’t care much about gods or primes,” Momus confessed, “because it was no intervention of a heavenly being that got us here. If you want to thank anyone, thank me for being _me_ enough to drag myself up into a position where I can warm your berth without anyone arguing against it.”

He kissed Sherma. “Slag, I love you. It’s so awful, I can’t believe it, but I love you enough that I think I might just die if you stopped being there. You’re better than all the money, power, or glory I ever could’ve gotten.”

 

“That’s the worst and best confession you’ve ever made. Me, better than hookers and blow and money.” Sherma laughed, finally drawing himself out of Momus, physically as well as the last tendrils of his spark. Merging was exhausting, and so was interfacing, even if they had had longer sessions than this quite easily.

“I love you too. Obviously. Even if you are the cockiest glitch I’ve ever met.”

Sherma pressed him close into another kiss, making sure to taste every bit of his love. Their clock was ticking.

 

 _::I think you mistook the word ‘worst’ to mean ‘romantic’, but that’s okay, I forgive you.::_ Momus returned the kiss with fervor, practically forcing his glossa into Sherma’s mouth with his boundless enthusiasm. _::Also, you clearly meant to say ‘most amazing’ instead of ‘cockiest’. The interface and merge must’ve addled your brain module.::_

He giggled. Clinging to Sherma, Momus rubbed his still bare array against him, smearing fluid across his plating. He leered. “There’s work to be done, darling.”

 

It certainly didn’t leave Sherma cold, such a lewd and blatant invitation.

“I’m going to take you to your berth, and ravage you until that smirk drips off of your faceplate, my love.” He spoke firmly, like he would on the senate floor, with his spike pressurizing for renewed service and his fans clicking back online. Their night had only just begun and Sherma had an unruly Helexian to tame.


	3. Chapter 3

 

He wished the night had never ended. Sherma had a lot of regrets in his life, and not spending every available second of it with Momus. He wished they’d merged earlier, and he wished they’d broken their promise to only become conjunx endurae after their revolution had bettered the world. He wished for a lot of things. And now, it was too late.

The senate had outplayed them. Him. Sherma knew it the second he entered the hall, completely vacant, with no sign of Momus anywhere in his hab suite. Oh, what a fool he’d been. The comm line had been hijacked, of course it had. The message, bait, Momus’ spacious suite, a trap. And Sherma had followed it blindly, right to his doom and the barrel of a gun. There wasn’t anything to say to his killers, and Sherma didn’t. He met death with dignity, even if he didn’t feel ready to depart. He had so much left to be said and done and yet, all he could think of was Momus. Momus alone, Momus witnessing his murder, Momus having to know that the two of them had been hunted down. Their dream was as dead as he as the shots ripped through his frame, sparkchamber instantly hit and agony flooding through him. Momus. Momus in his arms, Momus laughing softly, Momus smiling with hope and mischief in his optics.

_ I should have stayed with Momus this morning. I should have made him my conjunx. I should have taken him and run. _

_ ::I love you Momus. You’re being deceived. Don’t come-:: _

His spark exploded in a misty swirl of blue plasma. His frame’s departure would not be so gracious and quick.

 

-x-

 

Another day, another successful coup in the Grand Imperium. Momus wasn’t quite strutting, but he was damn near it as he checked down his mental list of how to hinder the Senate and further his cause at the same time. 

Proteus, the slimy cog, thought he was being real  _ smooth  _ with how he kept pushing Nominus around, but Momus was clever enough to know a slick when he saw it. Nominus was a daft fellow with more pomp than mind in his little helm, but he didn’t deserve to have Proteus mouth-breathing over his shoulder. It took a constant jockeying of votes and favors to keep his head above the hot oil, but things were working out, sort of. Momus played the game  _ real  _ good.

All in all, such excitement required some celebration. Maybe a nice dinner with Sherma? There was a new place opening up, promising some sort of exotic fare from an outer colony… Momus flicked through his comms idly, but Sherma’s signal was offline.

Hm. Probably busy in a meeting, or some such. Sherma only kept himself offline for important things. He would have to ask later.

His transport picked him up straight from the Imperium, and zoomed through the private lanes reserved for high-caste mecha to Translucentica Heights. Ten minutes later, Momus was walking into his flat.

_ ::Sherma, love, let’s grab some fuel later. The Senate’s being awful, as per usual, and I’ve got all sorts of clever ideas for handling them. Reply soon.:: _

When no reply came in an hour, Momus was impatiently tapping at his comm, frowning. Sherma was a punctual replier –  Momus was the one guilty of late comms, not him. Sherma would’ve  _ told  _ him if he was going to be held up for a day, so what the slag was going on?

_ ::Love, I understand if it’s a time-squeeze, but I’m gonna need a reply for our reservations.:: _

A half-hour later, and Momus’ impending impatience blossomed into full-blown worry. He was actively blowing up Sherma’s comm, with messages ranging from put-out to nagging.

_ ::Pick up. Pick up! Primus, whoever you’re cheating on me with better be gorgeous.:: _

_ ::I was kidding about the cheating part. You know I love you. I could love you more, however, if you picked up and replied.:: _

_ ::Sherma, this is Momus. Did you lose my channel, or something?:: _

_ ::Why are you offline? You know I hate it when your signal’s grey.:: _

_ :Sherma, pick up. This isn’t funny anymore.:: _

He paced his flat. It felt too big without a party, or someone to take up his attention. Momus prowled around, before retreating to his –  their –  berthroom. It was a big berth, too big for even the two of them, and Momus always liked to joke that the extra space was “ _ for our eventual other honeys, dear _ ”.

Snatching up the holopic of the two of them –  Momus laughing riotously while Sherma looked on with indulgence –  he scowled. “You know I don’t like it when you don’t reply quick-like. Makes me all antsy. You  _ know  _ that.”

_ ::I’m dead-serious. You’re seriously pissing me off here.:: _

Momus flicked on the holoscreen for the lack of something better to do. He sullenly flicked through channels, while texting with his other hand.

Entertainment, blah.

_ :: _ **_Pick up_ ** _.:: _

Dramas, blah.

_ ::I’m going to vote against your dumb educational reforms.:: _

Stock exchange, blah.

_ ::No ‘facing for a month. A year.:: _

News. Something pretty recent, actually. The screen panned over a bridge somewhere in downtown Iacon –  relatively close to the Grand Imperium, he’d’ve passed it –  and someone was talking in rapid Neocybex about a  _ shocking crime, one of the most high-profile murders in Cybertron’s history, a senator was  _ **_hung_ ** .

Finally, he perked up. Ooooh, this was going to be  _ good _ . 

_ ::Hah! You should’ve been here. One of our good ol’ buddies got ganked!:: _

Oh, Momus hoped it was Proteus, or Ratbat, or any of the other afts that deserved a short drop and a sudden stop. Maybe a frame hate-crime? That’d be real ironic, considering their stances on it.

_ ::Okay, okay, they’re getting to the good part, love, they’re gonna show the body. I bet you a hundred shanix its Proteus.:: _

His worry made him text Sherma, over and over again. He was still angry and worried, but this was  _ historical  _ news. Stuff they needed to be on top of.

The camera showed a body, hanging upside off a bridge, suspended by rope. A twinge of unease followed when Momus’ noticed the smoothness of the helm, the proportions, but he patted it down.

_ ::Real-time news, real quality, it’s _

He stopped typing.

Green paint. Yellow paint. Silver paint. A curved helm, a white face, broad green hands, and a little yellow fin at the back, the one that Momus was so idiotically fond of and and and-

_ No. _

“No,” he snarled, breathless, “ _ No _ !” 

Hanging upside down, like a little doll, so small and limp and lifeless and Momus’ fist was smashing through the holoscreen with impotent fury as he screamed another denial.

It shattered more under his fists, glass and holomatter flying every which way as he smashed the lies off the screen and into inert, harmless glass.

_ ::Sherma! Sherma, pick up!:: _

Grey and gone,  _ offline _ .

He was offline during meetings, and people were offline when they were – 

Momus refused. He wasn’t going to believe the lies on screen, probably another disgusting Senate stunt, and he was dialing up the enforcer’s station with shaky hands.

“This is Senator Momus,” he said, putting on his official voice, “asking for news on the murder on the bridge.”

“ _ Senator Sherma’s been confirmed dead, _ ” came the eager, flattered little voice,  _ “his frame is undergoing a full disassembly and autopsy _ –”

Sherma, alive yesterday, calm and peaceful as they talked politics. Holding Sherma while they lay on the berth together, still steaming. Momus had laughed into his plating about some bland joke or another and now Momus wasn’t laughing anymore.

There would be a statement for this. Reactions had to be quick, on the situation, taking every opportunity this offered and squeezing out a few more besides. There’d be public panic. He didn’t even know the full story.

He didn’t need to.

Momus sat down. His comm was still open, the smatterings of his constant texts still shining back at him.

_ Confirmed dead. _

He curled up on himself, drawing his knees in tight, tucking his helm. This was disaster protocol at the mines, he remembered, when the cave-ins happened. Protect the spark, brain module, and T-cog, all else could be replaced. When the world was falling apart around you, you had to keep the most precious pieces to yourself.

So what happened when that was gone, and the world was tipping over?

Momus didn’t cry. He couldn’t. His upgrade from his miner’s frame to this one hadn’t come with those.

Long breathes. Hard breathes. A prolonged prayer,  _ please please pleasepleaseplease,  _ to everyone and anyone he could think of, begging all the forces in the universe to not let it be so.

_ We made a mistake. I should’ve kept him closer. Should’ve done so many things, said so many things, and I can’t, not anymore. Dead. He’s dead. _

All his ambitions were dust. All his hopes were ashes. Why bother changing the world when you couldn’t share it with the one person you wanted to have it all with? 

His comm blipped.

Renewed hope surged in his intake, so powerful and intense Momus could’ve gagged on it. Sherma was still offline but maybe, just  _ maybe…! _

_ ::I love you Momus. You’re being deceived. Don’t come-:: _

He laughed. It started as a giggle, then a chuckle, then laughter that wracked his shoulders.  _ Timing. Timing! The perfect punchline to the perfect joke. And I was the fool, the buttmonkey, for the universe to laugh at. _

He laughed until he sobbed, and his sobs became laughter again.

Death was a mercy, at that point.

 

They came out of the hall, the very same that Sherma and Momus had danced in not long ago. The one where they celebrated and dreamed. It was dark and empty now, just like all of Momus’ spacious habsuite. Two mecha, burly, rough-looking, painted dark from pede to helm.

They didn’t do more than grab Momus, expecting little to no resistance from the senator. No matter where they came from, none of them were combatants. 

But his two silent assailants didn't seem interested on Momus' pain or struggles. They turned him over, spraypainting his back, purple smearing over golden plating. Once the task was finished, in silence of course, the two massive mecha held Momus in place, pressing him to sit whilst their guns moved past his face. There was no doubt they would be his executioners. He knew it. They knew it. There was an odd calm about it all.

One of them offered Momus a comm device. External, untraceable, off the record. Whoever was sending him a message had no intention of leaving a trail.

Proteus didn't sound any different than he did in the discussion round. He poured himself a drink, audibly.

"Senator Momus, let me take this opportunity to offer my sparkfelt _ condolences  _ to you. I do believe you knew this was coming. You forced my hand into this. It was a shame you had to drag Sherma down with you. He was...well. Unremarkable, but compliant. I want you to know this was entirely  _ your _ fault."

Death would be the mercy Proteus afforded Momus, even if he did not realize it so.

When the senator’s golden-white frame hit the ground, so very far below, he was already dead and gone, Sherma and Momus, changing the world only by leaving it behind for good.


End file.
